And then there was Ruth Stanton—an ideal wife in his eyes. But having Ruth was no more than a fantasy based on faint hope. She would never love any man but Webb Calder.
Blake had been almost five years old when his parents had finally married. He remembered his mother’s loneliness in her years as a single mother, how she’d struggled to survive, alone and almost friendless, abandoned by the society that judged her.
He would never wish the same fate for Hanna. But if he were to walk away from her now, that would be her lot—one more mouth to feed in a wretched shack that was already bursting at the seams; people who would gossip behind her back and turn away when she passed them on the street; the stain of dishonor that her family would carry for years to come—and the horrible epithet of bastard that would be hurled at her innocent child.
As Blake’s father had said, there was only one solution.
CHAPTER TWELVE
HANNA HUDDLED BY THE FIRE, CRADLING A MUG OF HOT COFFEE between her hands. By now, Alvar and her father had come in, stomping the snow off their boots and shaking it off their coats before they entered the house.
A pretty, dark-haired girl, who would be Blake’s sister, Kristin, had come running to greet Alvar. As they stood together in the lamplight, not quite touching, Hanna understood the change in her brother. Seeing how the two of them looked at each other made whatever she might have felt for Mason seem cheap and tawdry.
Lars mumbled his thanks as Sarah introduced herself and gave him coffee. He held the steaming china mug as if fearing his big, rough hands would break it, taking careful sips as his eyes surveyed the room with its high, beamed ceiling and huge fireplace. When Sarah offered him a chair, he shook his head and gestured toward his wet clothes. In this setting, he seemed almost shy.
Hanna could imagine how her father must feel. She felt much the same. Such a grand house and such warm, gracious people—she was overwhelmed, especially after the hostile reception Mason’s mother had given them.
Alvar had disappeared into the kitchen with Blake’s sister. Sarah was collecting the empty coffee mugs when Blake and his father walked back into the room.
Joe Dollarhide reached out to his wife and laid a hand behind her waist. She gave him a questioning glance. He returned a nod. His arm tightened around her before he spoke.
“Mr. Anderson, Blake and I have discussed your daughter’s situation. Now my son has a question to ask you.”
Blake stepped forward. From where she sat, Hanna couldn’t see his face, but she sensed something momentous hanging in the balance.
“Mr. Anderson,” he said in a formal voice that didn’t sound at all like him. “For the good of all concerned—my family and yours—I am asking your consent to make Hanna my wife.”
Thunderstruck, Hanna froze. Her hands clenched in her lap, bunching a fold of her skirt. Blake didn’t love her. Her baby wasn’t his. Why was he doing this?
Lars appeared startled for a moment. Then he arranged his features into a semblance of dignity and nodded. “You have my consent, Mr. Dollarhide. But only if Hanna agrees. For that, you’ll have to ask her.”
“I intend to. But not here.” He strode across the room to where Hanna sat and held out his hand. “Come with me, Hanna, and we’ll talk.”
She took his hand, her fingers trembling against his palm as he pulled her to her feet and led her down the hall to an open doorway. “My father’s study,” he said, ushering her inside. “Take this chair. I’ll light a lamp.”
Hanna sank onto the edge of an upholstered leather chair, perching like a bird about to fly as Blake lit the lamp on the desk. The soft light revealed a cozy but very masculine room, simply but richly furnished with a massive desk, several chairs, and a bookshelf that filled an entire wall. So many books.
The curtainless window behind the desk had given her a glimpse of snow and darkness. Now that Blake had lit the lamp, it became a mirror. From where she sat, Hanna could see her reflection—huddled on the chair, her clothes patched and faded, strands of hair plastered around her colorless face. She looked pathetic.
“How could you do this, Blake?” The words burst out of her. “How can you even stand to look at me, knowing what you know?”
He pulled up another chair and sat facing her. Lamplight softened the rugged planes of his face.
“What I told your father was true,” he said. “This is the best choice for my family, your family, the baby, and you.”
“But not for you. Did your father force you to do this?”
“No. It was my decision. Listen to me, Hanna. Your baby is a Dollarhide. If you were to agree to the marriage, he—or she—would have a legal father and a legal name. And you could raise your child here, in this house. Your family could visit you. You could visit them. And between us, we could find ways to make their lives better.”
“And if you were to find someone else, a woman you could really love?” Hanna asked.
“We’d deal with that if or when the time came—the same as we would for you.”
Hanna gazed down at her hands, looked up to meet his eyes, and forced herself to ask the one unspoken question that had been hanging between them since they walked into the room. “I don’t suppose you’d expect me to be a true wife to you.”
His mouth tightened. He cleared his throat. “No, of course not. I’d never lay an improper hand on you—not unless you wanted me to. This marriage would be a legal arrangement for the sake of the baby. Nothing more.”
He fell silent, as if waiting for her to speak. Hanna had more questions, but they were better left unasked. Blake was a man with a man’s needs. Were there other women in his life? If she married him, would he be getting his satisfaction elsewhere?
But why should it matter? Marrying Blake would guarantee her baby a secure future in a powerful family. Whatever the cost to her pride, she’d be a fool to turn down his offer.
“I know that marrying me will be a sacrifice for you, Blake,” she said. “Surely you must’ve had other plans. But I owe my baby the best possible life. So my answer is yes. I will wed you on your terms.”
He rose from his chair and took her hand. It was a gracious gesture, but Hanna couldn’t help wondering if he’d wanted her to turn him down. For all she knew, he could be feeling trapped. But she was doing this for her baby. She couldn’t back down now.
“Come on, then,” he said, urging her to her feet. “Let’s go back and tell the family. They’ll probably be waiting to celebrate.”
Celebrate? Hanna was not so sure, but she let him sweep her back down the hall toward the warmth of the big room. She thought of Sarah, who hadn’t even been consulted about her husband’s decision. She’d be taking in an unsuitable daughter-in-law, carrying the grandchild of a woman she had every reason to dislike. Blake’s mother impressed Hanna as a fine person. But what she was being asked to accept would try the kindest heart. Hanna would do well to remember that in the days ahead.
As she emerged from the hallway on Blake’s arm, all faces turned in their direction. “She said yes,” Blake answered their expectant looks.
“Well, this calls for a toast!” his father said. “I’ve got a bottle of champagne I’ve been saving for a special occasion like this. What do you say we break it out?”